


Perspiration

by themegalosaurus



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Blow Jobs, Embarrassment, M/M, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Scent Kink, Semi-Public Sex, Sweat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-18
Updated: 2016-01-18
Packaged: 2018-05-14 16:27:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5750113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/themegalosaurus/pseuds/themegalosaurus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's not weird that Jensen's noticed how much Jared sweats. You'd have to be crazy not to notice it. Okay?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Perspiration

**Author's Note:**

> Submitted a little late and very unbeta-ed to the [Sunday Morning Porn Club](http://smpc.livejournal.com) \- thanks to some unfortunate real-life scheduling. Like last time I had some more sophisticated plans but this ended up being 2000 words of self-gratification, based on [this nice little snippet](http://themegalosaurus.tumblr.com/post/137191727153/oh-trust-me-jensen-ive-noticed-chicon-09) from Chicon 2009. Control yourself, Ackles!
> 
> Also - I changed the title of this work because I didn't like it and it was bugging me! So sorry, it's not a new story, just a new name.

They're at a convention, in Chicago, and Jared is sweating. Big surprise, right? Jared is always sweating, some mysterious combination of a naturally high body temperature and the entire fucking mountain spring he's apparently concealing under his skin. Still, today it's even more excessive than usual. They're onstage, trying to answer a question, and Jensen is mid-sentence when Jared starts flapping his shirt around. It's the movement that catches Jensen's attention first, but he looks over properly just in time to glimpse Jared's stomach, honey skin and firm muscle exposed by the lifted hem. Judging by the squealing from the first three rows (and the blinding flashes that follow), Jensen isn't the only one to catch an eyeful.

"Dude," he says, warning, but then Jared looks at him through damp-dark bangs and Jensen forgets his disapproval in concern. "Jesus, Jared, you're soaked."

Jared grimaces, shrugs, indicates the lighting rig overhead.

"Take it off!" someone yells.

"I'm not taking it off," Jared says. He’s smiling, but he’s flushed and uncomfortable; and Jensen looks over to ask one of the stewards if they can grab a towel. It's not a big gesture. It's just what they do. He doesn’t think twice about it until he catches sight, as he swings back round to face front, of two girls in the front row exchanging soppy smiles, hands pressed over their hearts.

Suddenly flustered, Jensen gropes for something to say, starts talking almost before he knows what the words will be. “Jared’s always… he’s always sweating, on set. He just sweats profusely,” he says. “Even if he’s powdered up before the scene. Three lines in, and he’s dripping, just like this.”

Jared rolls his eyes, shakes his head. It’s true, though. At first, it used to make Jensen worry, vaguely concerned that it couldn’t be _healthy_ to lose all those fluids. Now, he’s used to it. It’s just a fact of Jared, fact of life. The image is so familiar it’s like it’s always behind his eyelids, damp sheen glistening over the planes of Jared’s face and neck.

Jensen tugs at his shirt collar, exposing his chest. He indicates the point where his collarbones meet, the spot at the hollow of Jared’s throat where the sweat always gathers. pooling shining and hypnotic. He looks at the audience, the girls on the front row who’d sighed over the towel thing. Give them something better to think about. “It’s always right _here_ on him,” he says.

He doesn’t think, until he hears the wolf-whistles from the crowd, that maybe it’s not normal for a guy to notice this kind of stuff about his friend. He doesn’t really _regret_ it until Jared laughs, a little awkward, and says “I don’t know whether to be flattered that you notice my sweat.”

Oh.

It wasn’t. It’s not like Jensen said, “Sometimes I just wanna lean over and lick it.” He didn’t say, “Sometimes all I can think about is how it would taste.” (Did he? For a tiny, horrifying second, Jensen wonders if maybe that particular nightmare just came true.)

Still. Maybe even the little he did reveal was already too much. “I,” says Jensen. “I, uh.” He’s conscious of his mouth opening and closing, fucking fish-out-of-water panic. Jesus. Pull yourself together, Ackles.

“Come on, man!” he says. He waves his hand at Jared, currently sat spread-legged with a box of tissues down the front of his shirt and another floating loose in his hand, catching the air where he’s been dabbing it with exaggerated delicacy over his face. He looks totally goofy. And ridiculously hot. As a defence of Jensen’s pure intentions, the picture’s pretty goddamn lame.

Thank Christ, the moment passes: Jared shakes his head and starts to laugh. But even as the questions move on and the atmosphere in the room relaxes, Jensen’s still vibrating with the shock of what he almost did. He has to breathe carefully, consciously calming himself down. It’s OK. It’ll be OK. He just has to watch himself more closely. That’s all.

That’s fine, as far as the convention goes. But in the weeks immediately following, it becomes apparent that Jared isn’t going to make it easy. If Jensen didn’t know him better, he’d say Jared was toying with him, that he knew just how Jensen felt and was winding him up, deliberately. But Jared’s better than that, he is. It’s just… it’s pretty hard to explain why, or how, he suddenly manages to be even more sweaty and in-Jensen’s-face than usual.

Like, for example, Jared starts to leave it longer and longer before taking a shower after he’s been for a run. It used to be fine, quick in and out and Jensen might _notice_ Jared all steaming and fresh but it didn’t fuck with his head the way that Jared does now, T-shirt clinging sticky wet to his back and the damp ripe scent of him on the air.

“Dude,” says Jensen, studiously looking into the fridge, “go clean yourself up already. You stink.”

Jared shoulders up close behind him, grabs a bottle of water. His hand leaves a damp print on Jensen’s back. “You love it,” he says, and bounces out of the room.

Jensen glowers at the empty doorway.

Worse still, that same week they film a fight scene on set. On the one hand, the fact that Sam and Dean are _meant_ to be exerting themselves means that Jensen is able to take a raincheck on towelling Jared down (something he’s been baulking at since that awkward conversation at con). On the other, when Jared actually has to run around, the problem of his perspiration becomes a whole lot more pronounced.

Two hours of hard work into the scene, Jared’s not just glowing; there are actual discernable droplets of moisture running down from his hairline, over his skin. Without even thinking about it, Jensen finds himself staring at that spot, that one spot right at the base of Jared’s throat. It’s predictably gleaming-wet. But maybe he was wrong, at con. Now he comes to think about it, it’s not just the throat that gets sweaty; it’s Jared’s whole broad chest. Which, actually… does Sam _always_ have his shirts so low?

“Eyes up, Jensen!” Jared says brightly.

Jensen can’t control his flinch; although he thinks he styles it out pretty well, diverting his gaze straight up toward the ceiling. “I don’t know,” he says. “This is a very unorthodox eyeline.”

“My face is here, dumbass,” Jared tells him.

“Whatever,” Jensen says. “I know.” He’s pretty sure his comebacks have become 5000% more useless since he started working with Jared (since he started _noticing_ Jared. You know).

Anyway, what with the running and the fighting and the humiliatingly feeble backtalk, Jensen’s feeling in a fairly fragile place. Given his luck, therefore, it’s not in the least surprising that the next time he heads to the on-set gym, he opens the door to find Jared shirtless, lifting weights.

“Jackles!” says Jared. “Just the man I wanted. Do you mind spotting me, just quickly? That cool?”

Jared’s wearing black sweatpants and, well, not much else. His feet are bare. His discarded T-shirt is lying under the bench. His hair is sticking to his face and forehead and his whole upper body is glistening, sweat running down his face and neck in little rivulets, curling their way down his chest, outlining every curve and dip.

Jensen swallows. “Sure,” he says.

Five minutes later, he’s regretting that syllable probably more than he’s regretted any other word he’s ever said. Jared’s lifting and his muscles are working and Jensen is hotly, painfully conscious that his position, stood protective at the head of the bench, puts his growing erection directly in Jared’s line of sight.

He doesn’t know what to do. If he says anything, steps away, Jared’ll have to drop the weights and he’ll want to know what Jensen is up to. If he _doesn’t_ say anything, well, Jared would have to be pretty much blind not to work out (as if he hadn’t already) that Jensen’s interest in his physique is maybe less innocent than he might like to think. It’s a lose-lose situation.

Jensen does the sensible thing, and stays. If he’s gonna go down, he’s gonna go down with the sight of Jared’s straining biceps imprinted on his retinas for the rest of time.

At last, Jared drops the weights back into their rest, drops his arms down beside the bench, breathes out. His chest is heaving, and Jensen really needs to tear his eyes away; but he can’t seem to do it, can’t stop looking at the swell of Jared’s muscles and the tan shine of his skin, droplets clinging to the hairs scattered over his chest. The workout has left Jared not only sweaty, but pink: the flush running down from his cheekbones and onto his torso. It’s delicious. Jensen's going to stop looking at it, though. Like, now. He just, um. He's just thinking a little about the heat of Jared's skin under his fingertips, his lips, his tongue.

“Hey, Jensen, need a hand with that thing?” Jared asks.

Jensen freezes, hot-and-cold all over. “What?”

Jared’s mouth twists up at the side, amused, and he pushes down with his feet, scooting back up the bench with a quick slick slide that nudges his nose right into Jensen’s crotch. The contact makes Jensen shiver, gasp, step back.

“Come on,” Jared says. He’s grinning, teeth white, eyes dancing as Jensen looks down at his upside-down face. He sticks out a long, pink tongue, wiggles it suggestively. “I’m serious, Jensen,” he says.

“I don’t,” says Jensen. He wants to leave, but he can’t. Something’s keeping him there, some anchor buried deep in the crook of Jared’s neck.

Jared pushes himself further up the bench, rubs the very point of his pointy nose along the underside of Jensen’s cock. “Come on,” he says. “Come on, Jensen, please.”

“I,” says Jensen, uncertain. He’s wavering. Maybe Jared _is_ serious. Maybe he’s asleep and this is just a dream.

If it _is_ a dream, waking Jensen is going to be so fucking pissed at his sleeping self if he turns Jared down like this.

“Okay,” he says. “Yeah, okay.”

Jared grins again, licks out wildly with his tongue, brushes haphazard against Jensen’s balls through the fabric of sweatpants and briefs.

“Take them off for me?” he says.

The door isn’t locked. Anybody could walk in right now. But Jensen does what Jared tells him, unties the drawstring at his waist and drops trou right there in the middle of the gym; slides his briefs down over his hips until he’s standing there with his cock standing out and proud and Jared’s face right up against it.

“Oh my God,” Jared says. “Oh yeah.” He lunges upward (abs tightening) and catches one of Jensen’s balls in his mouth, sucks at it thoughtfully. Jensen jerks forward, drops his hands onto the bar of the weights still resting over Jared’s head. The metal is cold and hard under his palms.

Jared lets go of Jensen, breathing deep. “You gotta feed it to me, Jen,” he says. “Go on. Please.”

Jensen would like to say something clever but he’s learned his lesson from the last few weeks’ humiliations. Instead, he tries to control his trembling fingers as he takes his own cock carefully in hand and guides it into Jared’s pink mouth.

It’s a little weird, getting your dick sucked upside-down. The sensations are just… they’re oddly different from what Jensen is used to, textures inverted, Jared’s tongue sliding unfamiliar over the top side of his cock. That is. The feeling of Jared’s tongue on Jensen’s cock is unfamiliar enough (though Jensen would be lying if he said that the _thought_ of it was equally strange). But this particular feeling is altogether new. It’s not… yeah. Jensen tightens his fingers on the metal bar, tries to stop himself pushing too far forward, choking Jared. Yeah. It’s not half bad.

Then Jensen looks down. Jesus Christ. He hasn’t accounted for the view. Like this, lying on his back with his head tipped off the edge of the bench, the long line of Jared’s throat is utterly exposed. Jensen can see the tendons shifting as Jared’s mouth moves over him. It’s dizzying. Trust Jared to come up with something better than Jensen’s ever even dreamed of; to get creative and filthy and blow his own half-assed fantasies out of the water.

He reaches down, runs the tips of two fingers feather-light from the join of Jared’s collarbones up to the point of his chin. “Nnngh,” says Jared, bobbing his head. Anxious, Jensen steps back, pulls free.

“Dude,” says Jared, hoarse. His face is bright red. “Don’t _stop.”_

“Oh,” says Jensen. He’s a little stunned. “Oh, okay. I won’t.” And he pushes forward again, back into the warm flexing heat of Jared’s mouth, pushes forward and clings tight and rolls his back. He watches Jared’s throat, working fast and determined; lets the sight blur into the arousal building from the hot wet slide of Jared’s smart alec tongue and from the shameful, sex-heavy scent of the room. 

When Jensen comes, fingers tight around the metal bar of the weights and his blood roaring loud in his ears, he can _see_ Jared swallow it down.

“Fuck,” Jensen says, panting. “Jesus, Jared.”

Jared slides back down and off, swings round into a sitting position and clutches at Jensen’s hand. “Whoah. Serious head rush,” he says.

“Yeah,” Jensen says, “Okay.”

Jared looks at him appraisingly. “That was good, man,” he says. “But now I’m even _more_ hot and sweaty.”

Jensen has noticed.

“Did you wanna,” Jared says. And Jensen says,

“Yes,” and stumbles forward onto his knees, and starts licking indiscriminate over Jared’s skin.

“Oh yeah,” Jared says, shivering a little as Jensen’s tongue catches over his nipple. “Knew - fuck - knew you got off on cleaning me up."

**Author's Note:**

> Comments welcome, as always, of course!


End file.
